Manage
by Flashtastic
Summary: "Memories of the war never leave him but being strapped to a bomb does tend to dig them up." John deals with the after events of the Great Game.


**I don't own Sherlock**

**Set during and after 'The Great Game'  
**

**Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and other war related events  
**

* * *

John Watson has seen a lot of things in his lifetime. He has seen death in many forms and has even brushed too close for comfort with it once. So when he finds himself strapped to a chair in the storage room of a pool house, death naturally drifts in and out of his thoughts.

His training from the military keeps him calm as he goes through his options in his mind, all that seems to fly out the window when Jim from IT walks into the room in a crisp and expensive looking suit.

"Jim?" John asks and even he's aware of the look on his face as the realization dawns on him, "_Moriarty_."

Jim's smile seems to split his features and he spreads his arms out wide with dramatic flair, "I _knew _there was a reason Sherlock kept you around. Bonus points if you can guess why you're here."

John sighs quietly and even though he's still a bit surprised by the revelation, he recovers his impassive face quickly. "I'm your next hostage."

"Well, you're _the _hostage! Don't sell yourself short, Johnny!" Moriarty claps his hands together, "Boys! Bring out his prize!"

John knows what's coming out for him and he steels himself for it but when two armed guards enter the room carrying it between them, he feels something inside of himself almost break.

Afghanistan suddenly shoots into his mind and his body goes numb. He remembers being with a convoy and a young man walking up next to their lead vehicle. He remembers the look in the man's eyes and then he remembers how many friends he lost that day.

He knows this is different.

He knows Moriarty is not going to force him to run into a building just to blow himself up.

He knows he is only bait.

But still, the vision triggers memories in a way John hasn't experienced in a long time. He breathes in deeply and his eyes never leave the vest, even as Moriarty approaches him.

"You understand how this will work, don't you?" An ear piece is waved in front of his face but when John doesn't react, Moriarty is quick to put together the pieces.

"Ah," Moriarty's voice goes soft, "Remembering the war?" His tone is filled with teasing and it is enough to draw John's glare.

"A crude tactic to be sure if one simply wants to stop playing the game…which is why I like to use pawns." He snaps his fingers and a third guard—John hadn't even noticed that one enter the room—approaches to unbind his hands so the vest can be strapped on.

As soon as John feels his first wrist go free he grabs the back of his chair and waits until the second one is also removed. In one fluid motion, that not even Moriarty can see coming, John twists his body violently to the side, bringing up the chair to smash into the guard's head. The man goes down as John delivers a vicious kick to keep him there.

He spins on his heels to face Moriarty because there's no way in hell he's going to simply allow himself to be suited up and paraded out just so the mad man can get the chance to harm Sherlock.

Moriarty's eyes narrow as John approaches him, "Now, now, Johnny. Let's play nice, shall we?"

His eyes move down John's chest in such a way that he looks down despite himself and stops all movements when he sees the red dot over his heart.

"Now, I know you don't like the idea of blowing up but who knows maybe Sherlock Holmes will care enough about his pet to keep you from going six feet in all manner of directions."

The vest is brought forward again and John weighs his options. He's taken a sniper's bullet before and barely survived, there was no way he would luck out again. He allows his arms to be pulled up by the other guards, as the vest is pulled securely on.

He hates the weight of it, the feel of it and just about everything about it.

He keeps seeing flashes of his comrades' faces.

Moriarty approaches again with the earpiece and John's certain the extra manhandling from him to get the device on is just for sport. "Now, as I was saying…"

* * *

Sherlock is quiet the entire ride back to the flat and John finds himself wishing his friend would say something-_anything_.

They both are acutely aware that they were only saved by the grace of God or whatever it was that drew Moriarty's attention.

John muses that that is why Sherlock is probably so quiet. He didn't quite beat Moriarty this time as they simply drew even. John knows that in his eyes and the eyes of probably any sane person in London, Sherlock won but he's certain Sherlock isn't seeing that way.

Sherlock escapes the cab first and bounds up to the door as John struggles to get out of his seat and pay the driver. His leg is bothering him for the first time in quite a while but Sherlock has yet to comment on it.

All John wants to do is sleep and for once, it seems, Sherlock does as well. They enter the flat and John says his good nights before marching off.

If he had turned back at that moment he would see worry etched all over Sherlock's face.

John doesn't bother with his clothes tonight. He simply kicks off his shoes and pants and peels off the shirt, throwing them all into a pile across his room. He glances down at his hand and forces himself to sit on the edge of his bed. It's comfortable and he's tired, so why is there a problem?  
He mentally calls himself a twit as he lays back into the covers, looking up into the darkness before sleep overtakes him.

* * *

Sherlock is standing in John's room not even an hour later. The consulting detective had gotten up in the night for some water when he had heard the first groan. It wasn't unusual to hear noises from John's room but when the sounds turned to whimpers; he could not simply ignore them anymore.

He watches John as the solider tosses and turns, muttering to himself in English and some foreign language that is too broken for Sherlock to piece together at the moment.

He's read up on PTSD; because there's really not much he _hasn't _read up on and thinks about the possible triggers John had experienced.

'He's not an experiment, Sherlock.' His brother's voice breathes into his mind and Sherlock's lips curl up at the sound until another almost- _sob_ escapes John's mouth. Sherlock ponders the effects of simply waking John up but thinks better of it as John's instincts might take over and Sherlock decidedly did not want a broken wrist.

It only takes another second before a brilliant idea comes to the brunette and he hurriedly leaves John's room, returning a few moments later with his violin. He starts with a soft tune that slowly builds into one of John's favorites. He watches John's reactions as the music starts and the muttering begins to slow down and the tossing nearly stops.

And in that moment when Sherlock sees that his music can bring comfort to his friend, he knows he can keep playing all night if he needs to.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **


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